“If you want to grieve, go right ahead,” he told her. “I’m here for you.”
“I can’t begin to describe how that makes me feel.”
“You’re welcome.”
She threw a teabag into a mug, and poured boiling water on top of it.
“Not having one yourself?”
“I’ve things to do, Jackson. When you’ve drunk that, you might want to leave.”
She left it on the counter and leaned against the wall, arms folded. Lamb studied the mug as if he’d never encountered one in quite this state before, and sniffed suspiciously. “Got a spoon?”
Catherine slammed a drawer open and shut again, and all but threw one at him.
He said, “It was his grandfather shot him.”
“I’m sure it was an accident.”
“You should be a lawyer. I’m halfway convinced already.” He mushed the teabag against the side of the mug with the spoon, then fished it out and dumped it on the counter. “Milk in the fridge?”
“You don’t take milk.”
“Maybe I’ve changed.”
“Chance would be a fine thing.” She tore a sheet of kitchen roll from a holder on the wall, and used it to scoop up the teabag. “His grandfather wouldn’t have shot him on purpose.”
“Twice?”
“Whatever.”
“You just lost the jury, Standish. Once could be an accident, I’ll grant you. The second shot, right in the face? That takes carelessness to a whole new level.”
“He’s an old man.” She dumped her little parcel in the bin. “Confused, frightened. He probably thought River was an intruder.”
“That why he lured him up to the bathroom?”
“Why are you asking me?”
“Just walking you through the stages. You seem to have put denial behind you quite swiftly.”
“Well, you have a way of hustling people straight on to anger. Are you going to drink that?”
“It’s still hot. Don’t want to scald myself. Any biscuits?”
“No.”
He said, “It’s almost like you don’t want me here. But what kind of boss would I be if I abandoned you when you’ve just had a shock? Anything might happen.”
“You’re no kind of boss. I quit, remember? Or tried to. I’ve sent the same letter to HR three times.”
“I know. They keep forwarding it to me. Something about ratifying the paperwork?”
“For God’s sake, Lamb, what’s your problem? You spent years goading me, and I finally did what you wanted. Just sign the damn papers and let me get on with my life.”
“Just making sure you know your own mind. Think how I’d feel if you wound up full of regret and had a relapse. Wouldn’t want that on my conscience, you getting all weepy and hitting the bottle.” He sipped his tea delicately. “They say drunks are just looking for an excuse. I’m not blaming you. It’s a disease.”
“Jackson—”
“Did you hear that?”
“What? No. Nothing.”
“Funny. Could’ve sworn I heard something.”
“There are people downstairs. It’s a flat, remember? Jackson, you shouldn’t be here, you should be at Slough House. You don’t leave your crew on their own when one of them just died. Didn’t you tell me that once?”
“It doesn’t sound like the sort of thing I’d say.” He put the mug back on the counter, unfinished. “That is quite possibly the worst cup of tea I’ve had anywhere. And I’m including France in that.”
“I’ll be sure to pass your complaint to the management. Are you ready to go now?”
“Oh, I think my work here is done.” He looked round the kitchen for the first time, and in anyone else, that might have been the prelude to a compliment: it was a small, compact space radiating efficiency and homely comfort, everything where it ought to be. Even the calendar looked thoughtfuclass="underline" an Alma Tadema beauty, leaning on a block of marble. The little white squares underneath it, one for each day of the month, were all blank. “And I can see you’re busy.”
In the hallway, she opened her front door for him.
“No messages for the others?” Lamb said, pulling his gloves on. “Words of condolence?”
“Tell them I’ll be in touch.”
“Grand. And what about the Old Bastard?”
“. . . What about him?”
“You planning on keeping him in your bedroom forever, or do you want me to arrange for someone to come fetch him?”
After a moment or two Catherine closed the door, and Lamb peeled his gloves off again.
In Slough House all were still gathered in River Cartwright’s office, which was presumably now JK Coe’s office, though he’d made no attempt to stamp his authority upon it. Instead he was slumped in his habitual position, his hood obscuring his face. For once, though—perhaps as a mark of respect—his hands were at rest. His fingers twitched at intervals, but no improvised silences were being wrung from the woodwork.
Moira, somewhat hesitantly, had laid out what was known, which wasn’t much. And then they had grown quiet, while on the street outside traffic swished past on a wet road, and the day, which should have been growing lighter, seemed to have stalled at a glum grey question mark.
“I feel bad now,” Shirley said at last.
“It’s barely ten,” Marcus pointed out. “You always feel bad before ten.”
“About what I said the other day, I mean. About him being replaced.”
“Yeah, well,” he said philosophically. “Fuck it.”
“Was he married?” Moira asked.
Ho snorted.
“He had family,” said Louisa. “His grandfather. He was going to see him last night. How can anyone get killed going to see their grandfather?”
“You can die swallowing a peanut,” Ho said.
Louisa stared at him.
“Not an allergy, I mean. Just, when it goes down wrong.”
Marcus said, “Might be best if you don’t speak again today.”
“Where’s Lamb, anyway?” Louisa asked.
“Not here.”
“Well he fucking ought to be. One of his joes just got killed.”
“Are we sure he’s dead?”
“Lamb identified the body,” Ho said.
“That doesn’t fill me with confidence. Does it fill you with confidence?”
After a pause, Shirley said, “Well, I wouldn’t want him identifying mine.”
“Louisa,” Marcus began.
“No. This is not fucking happening. Not again.”
“Again?” Moira asked.
“This is not the time,” Marcus said.
“We are not sitting here remembering another dead colleague while that little bastard loots his computer.”
“Move away from the computer,” Marcus told Ho.
“It’s not actually Cartwright’s—”
“Like, now.”
Ho rolled his eyes—this was exactly the kind of thing he was always telling Kim, his girlfriend, about—but moved away from River’s PC.
JK Coe said, “What did Lamb write?”
The room fell silent.
“He speaks?” Shirley said. “Nobody told me he speaks.”
“What do you mean?” Louisa said. “Write what?”
“I think he means Lamb’s text,” said Marcus. “You mean Lamb’s text?”
Coe nodded.
“He means Lamb’s text,” Marcus confirmed.
“He sent it to me,” said Ho. “What makes it your business?”